Optical Allusionist

So, I wrote a couple poems/songs. Check them out. Tell me what you think... I'm working on one about the Harmon extended family. but that'll prolly take a while. :)

Anyway, for "Please, Hear My Prayer" and "How Will I Survive the Night"

Please, Hear My Prayer

I'm broken, Lord
Repair my flaws.
I look to you from Satan's jaws.
I know you died and suffered so,
I'd be with you again, I know
That you must love me dearly, Lord
So, please, please hear my prayer.

Lord, I've traveled on this path and I
Don't know the way back to On High
But I know that you love me, Lord
I know that if I follow, Lord
You will hold me in your arms,
And lovingly remind me harm's
Gone, now that I am in your arms.
So, Lord, please hear my prayer.

I look to you with last resort,
I know you're not my last support.
You've stuck with me, through sin and fault,
You were pained so I'd exalt,
And when I'd stuck it in your face,
I lost my soul, I lost my race,
And when I needed most the love
That only comes from God above,
You forgave, Lord. You forgave.
My soul, my soul you came to save!

My Lord, how can I ever thank thee.
My Lord, how can I ever thank thee?
My Lord, how can I ever love thee
With the love thou holdest for me?
My Lord, my Lord. Please hear my prayer.
Please rescue me from this despair!
I need thee, Lord; I love thee, Lord!

So, Lord, please hear my prayer.
Oh, Lord, please hear my prayer.




How Will I Survive the Night?

I'm sipping lyrics slowly so I don't throw up my heart.
I have sutures holding ribs together, so I'm not torn apart.
I used to have dreams where blood was up to my knees,
Where children played in battlefields, and
And no one used the magic words.
I'm swallowed up inside.
Inside this bloody soul.
The scars are splitting,
Marred, and quitting.
I'm submitting.
Unremitting

Anything to get me out of here!

I spit up gobs of bloody soul, sip a 7 up now
Stalin's speaking to my head, Hitler, Mussolini, Mao.
I dance in the streets, singing Regina Spektor and specters
Haunt the bedroom lamps and I
Once drank a druid under the table
On my way to Aceldama.
Where I'll be vacating.
Bare debating,
I'm negating
Infiltrating.

Where do I expect to go,
Traveling the broken road?
I knew that I would end up here,
So why didn't I stop from fear?

I'm spitting up my soul tonight,
How will I survive the night?

How will I survive the night?

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On my way home from playing with a friend tonight, some song lyrics came to mind. "Someone told you forever, but forever it would not be." I thought maybe it was a Tim McGraw song I barely remembered hearing in 7th grade. I came home and looked up those lyrics on google, hoping to find the full song to play it on youtube. I searched google, checked on cmt.com, asked my brother-- Country Music Extroardinaire-- and checked again on google, with all kinds of variations.

I gave up and went to play on Facebook. Shortly into my game, I came to the realization-- and, yes, this is a little pathetic-- I had MY song stuck in my head. I had heard the song I was looking for, and, in an effort to create something similar, wrote the song "Scars." It's been so long (7 years) since I wrote it, that I'd pretty much forgotten about it. It's funny because, when I'd written it originally, I'd purposefully written the three verses to be three situations which I had no emotional relation to. And, though I'm not getting a divorce, which was the original premise of the first verse, my experience this week still matches it. Isn't it funny?

So, this is the song, "Scars". I'd sing it, but... that's obviously impossible.

Scars

Someone told you forever,
But forever it would not be.
They turned their back on you,
And said forever they could not see.

Scars, scars, scars,
Each and everyone has their scars.
They may hurt, but they will help;
If only we saw their part.

Mom had to have those cigarettes
Don't have any idea why.
Cancer seemed her one weakness.
Why did she have to die?

First day of tenth grade.
No one wanted to be his friend.
Was it that he had to change?
Did he really have to bend?

Scars can heal and help us
If we really work it out.
Don't blame it on the others.
Don't sit down and pout.

Scars, scars, scars.
Each and everyone has their scars.
They may hurt, but they will help.
We've just gotta see their part.



So, that's basically one of several songs I wrote in the beginning of junior high. Yes, I'm a genius. Lol, jk. Um, so I was engaged, and I'm not engaged anymore. That's why I was thinking of this.

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Within a minute after Gary had fallen, he knew he wouldn't survive. He could feel the shard of shrapnel cut into his bones as he breathed. Private Gary Barone had only come into this war a couple years ago. After the terrorist attacks in New York, he had found a new determination to join this war on terror. Leaving a pregnant wife and twenty acres of inheritance, Gary joined the army. Iraq was nothing like his Kansas prairie. The soldiers were either breathing in the dense foliage, or aching for the breath of it. The cursing and defaming of their terrorist enemies was a constant in the barracks.

The shooting had come from nowhere. Or everywhere. The shard, though, had come from a definite right, slicing a deeply into Gary's chest. Not being a medic, he couldn't say exactly what organ it'd hit, but he did know he had a lot of blood coming out of him. He lay there, bleeding to death, reenacting each picture he held of his wife, as the colonel in charge hurried the troop along, out of danger. Gun shots rang through his head as his labored breathing beat through his ears. He vaguely heard the colonel insisting to a fellow soldier that they had to leave him. They had to get out of there. And that fellow soldier, that fellow soldier was Robby.

Wasn't it just this morning-- which would have been only a few hours ago-- that he'd been speaking with Robby? Something about what they'd do today. About...

Gary passed out.

He woke up soon after to the second troop moving through. He remembered now. They were moving closer to Baghdad. Something about closing in on the capital. The soldiers that passed barely gave a second glance. He wasn't the first dying soldier they'd seen. His ears caught one private turn to another on his left and whisper, "He's not making it back." A photo of his wife was held between Gary's shaking finger tips. He grappled for the second photo of Danny, his eighteen month old little boy. He held it to his lips and passed out for a second time as the second troop stepped over his body.

"Wake up. Wake up." A hand gripped his face, shaking it a little. "I can help you." As Gary began to wake up, he could hear the Arabian accent in the words. "Wake up. I can help." He opened his eyes and blinked before looking at his rescuer. The man's stubbled face focused on a strange tool he had, that was sewing up the cut in Gary's chest. After tying a knot, he took a glance around, in order to secure their safety. He then looked directly into the core of Gary's eyes, and said again, "Let me help." Gary swallowed and nodded painfully.

He woke up once more to Robby's voice.

"What the--! Colonel! Private Barone's body's here." He helped Gary up, and moved him over to the running colonel. "Don't worry, Gary, we're here. We've gotcha." He turned to the Colonel, as he said, "You're lucky they didn't get you."

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Who's YOUUURR comfort juice? This happened to be the question Elise asked Chalice, concerning Jason (the kid who sits next to the 7 of us girls at lunch) :) It was an ENTIRELY odd moment, that ended up going way too far. In fact, if you're in for a humorous, extensive story, this is what I wrote for my anecdotal journals for English:

WARNING: eventual allusions of PG-13 material ... accidental allusions that were easy to infer.... which probably means they shouldn't be called "allusions", but I'm thinking too hard. Don't think too hard, here, either.

Jason had become the latest “hot topic” for lunch. He was the only boy in our group of eight lunch-kids, and the guy that seemed perfect for Stacy, attractive for Chalice, and my next first choice for a date. Chalice is in my ward, and so that Wednesday night we talked about maybe me wanting to go on a date with him. She's entirely indifferent to everyone of the male gender, and, when asked if she thought him “cute”, she'd laugh and say “I don't know! Why?” Thursday brought another lunch-time fantasia of laughter from her when Elise, who was in the loop but also indifferent, asked, smiling and bobbing her brow, “Is he your comfort juice?” Chalice, who was sipping from her juice box, nearly spurted juice all over Jason, who was oblivious to what Elise was hinting at. Stacy, listening to Jason talk, laughed at a joke of his, and signaled that she was unsure of what to think about the burst of laughter. I turned to Elise who was sitting next to me and asked, discreetly, if she thought Stacy and Jason would go well together. She looked at the both of them. Her eyes shot open, and her mouth erupted in laughter.
Stephanie stopped us all and asked, “What are we doing for Friday?” Every Friday we would bring a table cloth, and each of us would bring a food item to share with each other. We hadn't been doing that well with planning, and Stephanie wanted us to get a good start... even though it was still Thursday. Rebecca suggested playfully that we should all go to Stacy's conveniently-close house for lunch. I wasn't partial to the idea since I lunch work, and would get there late enough to scarf my food, and leave for school again. Jason perked up at once and said “Oh, yes, let's go to Stacy's house!!” Elise, in somewhat of a fit of confusion muttered, “But she doesn't have her room clean.” My eyes shot open and my head jerked around, mouth gaping as I rechecked my memory, trying to understand (in an appropriate setting) what she could have been implying.
“What?!” I gasped. She had gone too far. She paused for a moment, unsure of what I was asking. Her response came in a suddenly-straight posture and jerk of her head.
“How horrid! That's not what I meant! How could you infer something like that?!” I came to my own defense, and the argument immediately intensified into a high-pitched, rapid succession of machine-gun fire, each sure the other was at fault. The only kind of attacks a girl could make. The table stopped to listen to our nonsensical argument, and each onlooker in turn would give the expected “Okaaaaaaayy.....” Hesitant laughter trickled through the audience, as we began to die down. The discussion continued, trying to figure out who was to bring what. Elise and I would occasionally say things like, “You implied it, so it was easy to infer it.” or “How horrid! My goodness!” but were otherwise peaceful. Jason offered the suggestion of Italian, to which Elise burst up with laughter once more. Not quite up with her sense of lingo, I went back to my food, snickering at this whole “comfort juice” situation. Afterwards, Chalice approached Elise and I and asked what we'd been speaking about. Trying to explain enough to appease her, I said “Well... it sort of had to do with last night at mutual--” Elise broke open in guffaws, and asked “Was it combined?!” I gave her an incredulous glare and grinned. What a funny girl...


And for some odd reason, this conversation reminds me of Erin, and that "love letter" she, and I and Chalice, and Bethany, and... hmmm, anybody else? probably. Lauren? was she there that year? ... nO, i think she'd gone. ANYWAYS, at Youth Conference, we wrote a mysterious secret admirer letter for Derek. It's very funny. It was an odd way to... well, I think Erin was getting back at him- something to do with a pillow, and someone poking somebody else with a pin. Erin's a funny girl... so is bethany... and chalice... Hahaha, and Derek, but he's a funny BOY, not a girl... speaking of which, what happened to five second electrons, derek, maboy? ...That sort of came out wrong- I was just noticing the other day how often you used to cite it until Bethany left, and, well, if Freud were here, he'd psychoanalyze you for that up and down and straightways back. Anyways, probably shouldn't do that on here... Your subconscious may get more embarrassed than it is right now.

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March 1, 2007


Any of you guys remember "Big Brat"? That was a book I started in 4th grade, and finished in 9th grade. A wimpy 20 pt font, 56 page book. And such a drama, too. Wow, so I was reading that thing the other day, and I swear, I crack myself up. Know why? That is such bad writing. It's horrible. It's so horrible I was laughing hysterically. For instance, JCW's-- a local burger joint in AF -- is, I guess, the nicest place I'd ever been to. (I used to work there over this last summer. Never going back.) So, I thought it would be terribly romantic if (at 18 years old and having "many more... boyfriends before then") if my very-soon-to-be-fiance proposed to me there. In a tux. and me in a nice, white dress. But, after trouble getting to that point, which is too complicated to explain, I wait at JCWs for almost two hours (yeah right, if a guy left me in a restaurant for half an hour, I'd probably eat and then leave) and finally, when I get up to leave, a nurse walks in, having sneaked out of the hospital to get me for her patient. (Can we spell "G-r-e-y'-s A-n-a-t-o-m-y?") When I get to the hospital, I'm told (with a bit of struggle, of course) that he's broken his neck and is paralyzed. His bishop and another brother come and give him a blessing, and he's miraculously cured. (Oh, and the best part of that part, is, after HE asks ME to kneel down at his bedside, he asks me to marry him, and in the book, seriously, this is what I wrote: "I knew what I had to say, and I knew what I wanted to say. They were the same thing." I mean, in case you were wondering, you don't need to be worried. They were the same thing.) So, at 12:04, we attend the temple (in our tux and white dress, coincidentally) and invite Lyndsi Bromley over to our marriage. After popping into my parents (who were ecstatic, of course) and his parents, we find out that his great Uncle Leo, or something like that, died and just left us 10.5 million, and a mansion called Cobra Mansion (doesn't exist for those of you that are eager to discover this mansion.) I mention so many people that I knew from way back when in that book, though, it's funny. In the book, I actually start working at the AF Jr High, and I'm working there now. Anyways, I'm tired and that's about all the laughs I can get out of that book for tonight. :) Seia guys later!!

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Berlin

I run down these streets watching the planes fly over.
My friends laugh at them, pointing up into the sky,
But my father told me about these planes.
Bombs, he said-- to destroy the Fuehrer.
Of course, it was the first year in many
That we hadn't had to worry about food.

Why would Britain take that away from us?
I don't laugh and point with the others.

My father shakes me awake. "Wach auf!! Sie kommen! Sie kommen!"
They're coming. A great horn cuts the night,
As we scamper to the bomb shelter.
Great bombs shatter the peace of the night.

Why are they doing this?
I shake and cry with each new bang.
Closer and closer.


A tear stained pillow in the God-forsaken bunker
Welcomes the new day.
"Wo ist Vati?" Where is father?
My father, Mother says, went outside that morning.
There was no food in the bunker.
I jump to follow him, but my mother grabs me back.
No, she screams, I cannot lose you too.

But I leave soon enough anyways.
We can't stay cooped up in the bunker for forever.
The light from outside blinds us until...
I wish it would blind us again.



He went out for food? I ask mother.
There is no food. It looks like it did before Hitler.
There is no anything. This is what the Fuehrer had saved us from.
Rubble and debris clutter the streets.
Listless comrades trudge through the streets of our beloved city.
Berlin.

We search for Vati.
He must come back sometime.
For days we don't return home. There is no home now.
Only the bunker has been spared. No bed. No food.
No anything.

My mother is small.
She cowers. She does not eat enough.
But that may be only due to the fact that we don't find enough to eat.
Vati was never found.
Mutti doesn't seem to care anymore.
I can hear her chatter in her sleep.

I'm angry.
Hitler gave us food.
He gave us pride.
He gave us bravery.
He gave us self-respect.
He gave us protection.

And now they take it away.
They take it away like they did before.

I run to the enlistment office.
I will teach these British Schweinhuende.
But the men in their uniforms laugh.
We know you want to help, they say,
But come back in a few years when you're older.
Be a good German boy now.
We will teach them.

But I don't miss the terror in their eyes, and the creases in their brow.

I run down these streets again
The streets of a once- stunning city.
But now the only stunning thing about it is that it
Is no longer the wonder it once was.

Berlin.




This is a tank in the middle of Berlin's ruins. I'd show a picture of an incendiary bomb, but I'm not sure those were dropped on Berlin specifically. We need to remember that everyone has their own perspective, especially in tragedy. Not everyone was overjoyed that we were coming to "free" the Germans. Not many were saying "God bless America for burning my mother in the incendiary flames!" We need to remember this as we are in Iraq. One innocent Iraqi civilian dies, and it opens the way for his or her friends and family to be angry at a country that was never asked to come in. Hitler was an evil man, who did a lot of good as well as a lot of bad, no matter what his motives were. He helped a starving nation- Germany, while destroying many other nations. I wouldn't say he was a good man, but I would say he did do some good things.


This is the structure of an incendiary bomb. These were dropped into German cities (and British ones). They would drop, explode, and create fires that would reach immense temperatures and immense heights. Heat rises, and so drafts would be created from all the air rising with the air as it continued to get hotter. The drafts were so powerful that they would carry cars, animals, any debris on the street, and even human beings, right into the fires. Human beings were sucked into the flames we created-- and we knew they would be. If you weren't sucked in, you might be very likely to get hit by a rushing piece of debris, which, if it's big enough or hits in the right spot, can kill you as well. If you were in an underground bunker, the air in the bunker was likely to be sucked upwards with the rest of the air, which meant suffocation for all those hoping to survive. Very few people survived incendiary bombs. Who thought up something like this in the first place?


Who did Germany take over first? Sudentenland? Poland? Sure, whatever, but remember: Who did the Nazis take over first? Poland? No, sir. Germany. The German people were captives of their own. There was much they didn't know about Hitler's (or Goebbel's or Goerring's) orders. It wasn't until after the war that most discovered the truth of the concentration camps. People who were against the "Vaterland" were often taken away without a trace. No one knew where they went. Fear was replaced with fear. You no longer had to worry about your children starving. But you did have to worry about other things. Remember, the German people were victims just like the rest of Europe. Fear makes people do crazy things.

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I love to write. It's more than what I do. It's who I am. The need to write is completely natural for me. But for times like this, I hate it. It feels intrusive. I'm stumped! I have plenty of ideas, but the moment I grab onto the tail of one, it flies off without a "by your leave"

I would love to write a story about Cinderella and what happens after her "happily ever after night", and so I did the best and the worst thing: I went to Yahoo! Answers, and asked people what they thought would happen. I got AWESOME answers, a lot of "Well, the story says she lived happily ever after", and a few stories that I think reflected the lives of the answerer (The prince thought Cindy cheated, they went on Maury, found out the baby wasn't his, the prince got a conga line going while Cindy bawled her head off in the back room) I got some awesome ideas though. (Due to her harsh upbringing and use of unsafe cleaning supplies, Cinderella is unable to conceive a child.) Or -- talking about having twins-- (an heir and a spare) or... (after the step-sisters come in to help with Cindy's attempted suicide, they start telling lies about CIndy, and the prince gets wicked mad at them and signs them up for E-Harmony, where they find equally ugly and evil brothers to marry) but the best I thought was (One of the first things that happened is that no person EVER called the new princess Cinderella again! Her name's not Cindy, it's Ella) but to add spice, I'd call her Elsa.

So, that was my poke in the dark tonight. Wow.

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This story is based on an experience of my paternal fourth-great grandfather. The entire story is as close as I could get it, through reading several journal entries, and hearing the tale recounted by my father.

Afraid for his family, William Butler wiped the milk off his mouth and stood to leave. Ellen glanced over the pot of oatmeal, as she cleaned the remains of breakfast off of the table.
"Listen, Ellen, I don't feel good about leaving you and the girls here."
"Have you heard how Sister Tracy's been doing with her oldest girl working for Sister Maines?"
"I'm serious." William had guarded the door the previous night and was still tired and aching, but more than his aching body was his aching fear. "If that man comes back again, I just—"
"Ruthie, come get the rolls." Ellen turned back to her husband as soon as she could hear their five year old child trudging distractedly towards the kitchen.
"Ellen."
"Look, William, I don't have a lot of time for this. If he comes again, I'll just give him the eggs he wanted."
Beginning to raise his voice, William emphasized, "This isn't about eggs, Ellen. This is about –" Her glare cut him off. Without another word, he left the house, still worried about what would happen with him absent. All the same, he was quite angry with Ellen, and they hadn't been getting along with each other lately anyways. Heck, if he comes back, it sure is her own fault that I'm not here.
Speaking of the visitor… William's thoughts drifted back to yesterday. He must have been a French Canadian; his accent sure sounded like it was probable. Since he was a foreigner, he was probably working on the railroad with the rest of the riffraff. First it was the eggs. Then he wanted in. Wanted… more. Ellen was strong-willed, but even she was afraid and couldn't do much more than stall for time. William had just ended with his day's worth of harvesting, and had ridden up to a frightening scene: a man about his size holding his wife by the wrist, shoving her up against the door of the cabin. The cabin William had just finished that summer.
Two rows. Will glanced at the sun. It couldn't be very far in the day. About time for lunch. He had been working hard, and the work helped him to channel his fear and frustration. This summer- the summer of 1869- would be one of their most successful harvests yet.
A coward, the Frenchman had flown. Yesterday William had jumped off his horse and begun to run but was no match for the foreigner's fleetness of foot. He might have caught him if---
"William! William!!!" William's friend Henry Tracy was galloping at full speed towards him. "William! William, you have to go home now!" Henry was finally close enough for William to see the anguished visage of his friend.
"Henry. Henry, I've only got two rows out. I need another three at the least in order to get a good healthy crop out of what I plan—"
"Will, they're dead. Will, your wife and girls- they're dead."
"But… but I still have three more rows to get outta here."
"NO, you don't understand. Will, grab your horse now, and follow me." William's eyes went wide with a rush of understanding. Ellen. Ruthie and Ellie. He tripped over himself rushing to his horse where he had tied it to the shade tree.
The ride was painfully long, and Henry did what he could to fill in William with the basic details. His wife's head was split open, and she had multiple bruises. His oldest daughter, Ellen, also had deep wounds, but had miraculously made it to the Tracy's home to find help. Ruthie, his five year old, did not seem like she would make it.
"Truth be told," Henry admitted, "Probably none of them will." William was quiet, staring ahead, anxiously dashing for the cabin. He had to hope. He had to. God would save them.
Their cabin was a-shambles, chairs knocked over, the curtains torn, a pool of water spilling from an open kettle. The Tracy's youngest daughter, Rose, was huddled in a corner, her eyes blank. Her shaking finger pointed to the bedroom. There, William and Henry found a gut-wrenching spectacle. Blood-soaked sheets lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. Sister Tracy, tending to a figure on the bed, turned around, a wild look in her eye.
"William!" She grabbed his hand, and pulled him to the bedside. He tried desperately to keep his eyes off her head. Blue and purple bruises covered her arms, and her eyes were shut tight, and… Oh, dear God, no. Bandages wrapped around her head, but a dark mahogany polish stained them. Blood. She was dead. Or, he realized once he glanced the rise and fall of her chest, she will be soon. He fell back a pace.
"Ellen... Ellen." Sister Tracy paused her tending to look back at him.
"Ellie's over there, Will."
"Ruthie. Did she get the rolls?" No, that's not quite what I meant. What am I talking about- rolls. "I-I mean, where is she?" Sister Tracy glanced in a panic at her husband before repeating herself.
"Ellie's over there, William." By the look in her eyes, William knew.
"She- Ruthie- but she- Ruthie was going to show me her spelling tonight. She still has to be able to spell 'plow' to win… p-l-o-w. Plow." He burst into a sudden sob. All this trauma. And the crops not even in yet. Three more rows. Henry took him by the arm, and led him to Ellie's bedside. Not as bad as her mother, but most likely it was to be just as fatal.
His eyes a cold blue, his voice a cold steel, William asked, "How did this happen? Where is he?"
Henry gazed undecidedly at his friend. William hadn't shown the strongest of will in the past several minutes. Would telling him only push him into a realm of danger? But William deserved to know. She was his wife, and they were his children.
"It was the Frenchman, wasn't it." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes. He came back. My wife and the girls got here at the end… and he ran."
"What did he do?" Henry gulped. There could be no dodging this question. His wife had heard a brief explanation before Ellen had passed out from loss of blood.
"He tried to force her again." Sister Tracy looked away at that. It wasn't proper in any other situation to speak of it. But in such circumstances, well… Henry continued, "She wouldn't let him so he grabbed a hatchet."
Sister Tracy interrupted. After all, it had been her who Ellen had told her story to. "She thought he was trying to steal it. He… Well, when she reminded him that the hatchet was hers he said, and this she told me exactly, he said 'Yes, damn you, I'll kill you with it too.' After that… well, you can imagine."
William was stunned. What kind of a man would have so little humanity? Sister Tracy continued. "The children tried to help… once he started… hurting her, I mean."
"Oh." What else was there to say? Nothing he could say could change it… Nothing he could say. Nothing he could say, but, by golly, he could very well do something!
"Where is he? Where did he leave to?"
"He ran to the willows."
Bolting out the door, William yelled to Henry, "Go get John Hudson!" He would find this man, and he would beat him to the ground. Dodging the willows, he ran towards the Tracy's home. Expecting to run past, he stopped suddenly. The same man from yesterday. He was walking through the shadows, hoping to be ignored by those traveling the same road.
"You! Butcher!" The Frenchman continued walking, keeping his eyes low, and his walk fast but inconspicuous. William repeated, "Butcher! I'm talking to you." He caught up to the immigrant and swung him around, grabbing his shoulder. Blood covered the man's front of his shirt. His hands too.
William paused before looking him in the eye and asking, "'You a butcher?"
Laughing nervously, the man answered, "Oh, you mean the blood? No," he chuckled through a thick French accent, "that's the blood of some chickens I was killing. But I don't do butchering for a living." He paused and asked warily, "Do I know you?"
"You know my wife. In fact, I believe that's her blood. Blood of my children too."
The muscles in the man's face went slack. A small sneer crossed his eyes. "Why? Is your wife a chicken?" William, filled with all the fury of a husband, let the man's nose feel the wrath of his fist. While the man had been an expert sprinter, he was no where near a champion fighter. William just had to make sure he didn't get away, and he would win. They wrassled in the dirt, throwing blind punches, grinding faces into the street, and doing whatever else they could to make sure the other lost. Will finally found the right hold, being in a position to hold the railroad worker down with one hand, and lay it on him with the other.
Hearing Henry hollering down the way, William continued to exert justice as Henry and his wife ran up to the two wrestlers. Sister Tracy, it seemed, was two steps ahead of Henry, determined to help him get all the more into the action.
"Kill him, Butler!" she rang out, just before Henry grabbed her by the shoulder and led her away. She dropped a club she'd been carrying, as her husband urged her off. All the while in the background, he could hear her hollering, "Kill him, Butler, kill him!" With a jolt of a glance to his left, William grabbed at a large stone, swung it above his head, and brought it down to the head of his family's offender.
Crack!
William stood back. No movement, but how could one be sure. If he left, the man could sprint away, and then William would never catch up with him. No movement. He had to leave. Had to check on his wife. No sooner, though, that he was three houses away, the body of the rogue stirred, and began to galumph where he had first been intending to go. Praying that Sister Tracy had made it back to tend his wife, William cautiously began to follow the Frenchman. Past the river. Through the willows. Following the rail road tracks.
William stood discreetly behind a heavy willow, watching the man, waiting for the right time to spring. If he jumped now, then he might grab for his gun, and as disoriented as he was, he just might hit me, what with how guns were these days. He might as well give up because the Canadian was fixing away from the Butler farm, and William couldn't be led farther away. Yes, he might as well turn back.
"Are you the French-Canadian that defiled and attacked the Butler woman?" A voice came from William's right. The voice, belonging to his friend John Hudson, sounded confident enough to kill. A shot rang out, and a shriek shook the willows. William found the courage to poke his head out far enough to see that the immigrant's hand was bleeding thickly.
"What're you doing? I didn't do anything to you!" Fear and anger mingled in the eyes of the Frenchman. Doing what would be most beneficial for him, the miscreant turned tail and ran for the railroad bridge.
"Damn you, stop!" John's frustration rang through the forest.
William stepped out, careful not to spook John's horse, and exclaimed, "If he crosses the Ogden, we'll lose him!"
William Butler ran as fast as he possibly could after the Canadian. And finally, when the immigrant had jumped off the opposite side of the bridge, he caught him- because of the moment of shock and the pause for air. Grabbing for a long stick on the side of the bank, he began to beat the sense into the man once again.
A whimpering noise cut through the blows. "Oh, please. Please, please let me die in peace." With one last blow, William stood off. John's horse arrived, finally making it through the underbrush of the willows. Turning to his friend, William said, "Let him die. I'm going to go get help from Doctor Morris." John followed him along solemnly, no sound made but the crunching of leaves under the horse's hooves.
They led Doctor Morris back to the bridge, but only to find the Frenchman's coat. The grooves in the mud indicated that he had slipped himself back into the river, ready to not be followed this time. Realizing what had occurred, William shouted an order to Doctor Morris before gesturing to John to have him follow him.
"Doc, go down to my house- help my wife and Ellie as much as you can. Do what you can." John and he ran through the willows.
John yelled over his shoulder, "Where are we going? Do you know where he is? How is this even gonna work?"
"I don't know. I've gotta gut feeling to go through Town Square."
"Let's go by Farr's Mill race. He wouldn't go through the most populated part of town today."
"Maybe he wouldn't know it's the most populated. But that's where we're going."
John and William were about a half mile away from the Town Square, and were keeping their eyes open for the man, when, just as William began to lead around to the gate of the Square, he spotted him.
"Butcher!" William furiously picked up another stick and hocked it at him. "Coward! Butcher!" A shot rang through the air, and William ducked in a panic next to John. His friend prepared his rifle. The man got up and ran. Even with the knowledge of such a danger, William stood and ran after him. He couldn't let him get away. Not after so much trouble. Exhausted from the chase, William did what he could to keep the man in sight. Taking a little-known shortcut, William cut off the man, slamming his club into the foreigner's nose, beating his skull into atoms. John Hudson caught up to him, catching the last remnants of a prayer.
"Lord, have mercy on my soul." John knowingly handed his friend a pistol, reminding him of the shots he'd already taken.
"Make a sure shot- there is only one bullet in it." William ignored the groan of the Frenchman, and shot, watching the blood ooze from the man's mouth and bullet holes. Last of all he proclaimed a loud judgment.
"Go to Hell across lots!"
John and William stood for a moment, contemplating the reason for the murder. By this time William knew his wife would be dead. His Ellie too.
"I have to go."
"I know."
"No," clarified William. "I have to go."
"Home. I know." John was agitated from the stress and tension of what had just occurred, and was in no mood for games.
"No. They're probably dead anyway. No, I have to go to the sheriff. I have to turn myself in. Murder's murder."
"I'll go with you." John hastened to join his comrade.
"No. I have to do this by myself. I have to go." And with that, he turned and walked numbly out of the forest. When he had reached the station, he knocked twice on the door, and entered. The sheriff's black moustache twitched as he looked William Butler up and down again.
"What do you need?"
"I'm turning myself in for the murder of a French-Canadian." He continued to calmly explain the circumstances of the murder to the sheriff.
There was no immediate answer. Fat fingers massaged the chin of the law-enforcer.
"Go home. Go home and take care of your wife." William could hardly believe it.
"Sir. He's dead. Sir, she's dead."
"We'll come clean it up."
"Sir, I killed him."
"I know. I heard about it already." William's eyebrows shot up. This had not been expected, although who could blame them? The attack had been so close to Town Square. Someone was bound to know what was going on, and report it.
The sheriff sighed and repeated, "Go home. We'll take care of it."
Unsure what to do, William backed out of the cabin. He stepped down the street, only trying to put one foot in front of the other, until he had arrived at home. Sister Tracy was eager to hear of the Frenchman, and agreeable with the sheriff.
"You did only what was right."
"Lord, have mercy on my soul," he repeated to himself.
He watched over his wife. She was miraculously alive, but he would see how far that would take him. It had been made clear that he would not face consequences for the actions against the stranger. But he would be here, watching over his wife, tending to his child, praying, hoping they would be alive the next morning.

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Elizabeth jerked awake, grasping with shaking fingers for her wiry glasses. Her vision clear, she pressed her pale knuckles to her head.

"Stop." Gasping for composure, she repeated, "Stop, stop, stop!" With a deep inhale, she folded her quivering hands over her stomach. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she focused on the glow-in-the-dark star formations. The room, softly spinning, disappeared behind fitful eyelids.

A soft scarlet fabric ran up and down her finger-tips. Or perhaps it was her fingers running up and down the fabric. Thump. Thump. Was it a heartbeat? No; too distant. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The heavy footfall broke behind her as Elizabeth's eyes adjusted to the sudden light. She crouched against the thin sheet of metal-- an excuse for a van door. Dumpy, magenta, leather seats sat to her right. She crushed herself into the back of the driver's seat, a corner out of the man's view.

She knew the man stalking her. She had already seen his over-sized crossbow, and his bulging, steroid-hyped figure. Childlike hands attempted to grab the plastic pocket, as tides of elbow-length, strawberry-blond hair fell in front of her eyes.

The footsteps began again, moving to the other side of the Plymouth Voyager. Her frightened young frame found the agility to spring to the opposite door- his destination. Breathing heavily, keeping her head low and out of view from the window, her eyes darted around the broken-down car. Under the seat? Maybe she should be hiding th---

"Liz? Liz, it's time to get up!" Her mother rapped at the door. "Li-iZ!"

Her temples faintly aching from being pressed against the metal frame of her glasses, she rasped "Yeah." She paused from lack of sufficient sleep.

"I'm up. I'm up." The floorboards creaked as Elizabeth's mother walked away.

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At 8:17 on a Tuesday morning, I was convinced that it was the absolute worse day of my life. I am someone who abhors lateness and rejoices in punctuality in all things. In fifth grade, I was even awarded the "Honorary Punctuality Award" for never having had a single tardy or absence. that Tuesday I was late two minutes to Chemistry, destroying my perfect record. And as if that wasn't bad enough, my library book, Summer Reading is Killing Me, was due yesterday and for one reason or another, I had conveniently remembered that morning. But that was all at 8:17.

At 8:19, as I rounded the last corner on my way to class, I ran into Rick Krennar. Books and papers flew everywhere as we bumped heads. I shook the stars out of my eyes, and the bump off my forehead, and was about to yell "Hey, watch where you're going!" when I made a huge mistake: I looked up and saw those dreamy, Tucker-blue eyes staring down at me, a concerned stare clouding his face, and puckering his eyebrows. Why was he concerned? Everything was perfectly fine. Still hazed by my elated astigmatism, I stared around at the textbooks and notes blanketing the floor. My ecstasy broken, I jumped to my knees and began to pick up the mess that had been created by my carelessness, stuffing all I cold find into both the bags. And before I could tell, Rick was gone, leaving me gazing off happily into a distant hallway, a cacophony of papers stuffed and crumpled into my bookbag.

I don't know how long I knelt there, but I do know that by the time I looked down at my watch, I finally came back to my senses. The timepiece read a grim 8:37. There was no way I could walk into class twenty-two minutes late, so there was only one thing to do: deliver the book back to the library. Straightening the chaos in my bag, I searched for the text. I looked six times, but on the seventh try, the book still wouldn't appear.

I was beginning to get frantic when who should come back but Rick. The feeling of wanting to tear out my hair was still fighting with the urge of high school acceptance as he asked me if I was looking for something. I was about to nod-- seeing as how that was all I could do-- when I had a moment. You know, one of those moments where you feel like you understand the answer to everything, and if someone asked you whether the chicken or the egg came first, you could answer with true conviction and full confidence. I stood up, bag in hand, and said, "No. I need to go to the library," thinking that perhaps i had already returned it, as would be in my nature.

Or, at least, "library" is what I meant to say, but at the last moment I looked in his eyes again, and I got weird and said something that oddly resembled "By Mary" or "Primary." Well, Rick smiled- which set me off once more. (Those teeth weren't just perfect; they were divine.) He led me out to his car, and offered me a ride. It wasn't until we pulled up to the Binary Brothers Clock Shop that I realized something was wrong. Turning to tell him that I meant "library", not "Binary", I spied a lone book on the top of the dashboard.

"Oh my gosh! My book!" Rick glanced over and affirmed that he hadn't been sure where he retrieved it from and now understood that it must have been when we bumped into each other. When we got to the library, after a brief explanation with Rick, the woman behind the counter explained that it wasn't due for another three days.

After I fainted, Rick drove me to the hospital and I was treated for shock, but after I awoke, they became suspicious of insanity and sent me to the local mental hospital for a stay of a month. After twenty-seven days of vouchers on my behalf, the doctors were finally convinced that my rantings of books and Chemistry ahd nothing to do with my mental health. Which is the reason I'm here, 25 days late, turning in my book, Summer Reading is Killing Me.

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Idealism Concerning the Occupation of a Janitor

For the school to be rid of its grime,
If the teachers would just give it time,
It'd take care of itself;
The students would help
To make their school shimmer and shine.


Shakespearean Sonnet

Across the burning bridge, I see the maiden fair.
Her every action pleading freedom from self- inflicted dragon.
Yon dismal dreaming maiden with the pallid face
Her eyes a piercing azure, hair: locks of teeming ebony
The bridge ablaze before me, neither she or I may cross.
Despite the cruel reality, I call for her to come.
She dare not move and neither I in case of callous peril.
With wings spread wide, the infernal beast swoops from yonder perch.
Bonfire extended from fortified jaws, directed at maiden fair.
Ideal visage strikes bitter tile. She ducks to avoid his flame.
And I limited to inspecting the dishonorable deed.
Ashes and smoke hide the falling bridge, but Clash! rings loudly in my ear.
I call for her to come once more, but all for my despair.
Due to the beast, I must depart. A knight I was, but now no more.


Berlin

I run down these streets watching the planes fly over.
My friends laugh at them, pointing up into the sky,
But my father told me about these planes.
Bombs, he said-- to destroy the Fuehrer.
Of course, it was the first year in many
That we hadn't had to worry about food.

Why would Britain take that away from us?
I don't laugh and point with the others.

My father shakes me awake. "Wach auf!! Sie kommen! Sie kommen!"
They're coming. A great horn cuts the night,
As we scamper to the bomb shelter.
Great bombs shatter the peace of the night.

Why are they doing this?
I shake and cry with each new bang.
Closer and closer.


A tear stained pillow in the God-forsaken bunker
Welcomes the new day.
"Wo ist Vati?" Where is father?
My father, Mother says, went outside that morning.
There was no food in the bunker.
I jump to follow him, but my mother grabs me back.
No, she screams, I cannot lose you too.

But I leave soon enough anyways.
We can't stay cooped up in the bunker for forever.
The light from outside blinds us until...
I wish it would blind us again.



He went out for food? I ask mother.
There is no food. It looks like it did before Hitler.
There is no anything. This is what the Fuehrer had saved us from.
Rubble and debris clutter the streets.
Listless comrades trudge through the streets of our beloved city.
Berlin.

We search for Vati.
He must come back sometime.
For days we don't return home. There is no home now.
Only the bunker has been spared. No bed. No food.
No anything.

My mother is small.
She cowers. She does not eat enough.
But that may be only due to the fact that we don't find enough to eat.
Vati was never found.
Mutti doesn't seem to care anymore.
I can hear her chatter in her sleep.

I'm angry.
Hitler gave us food.
He gave us pride.
He gave us bravery.
He gave us self-respect.
He gave us protection.

And now they take it away.
They take it away like they did before.

I run to the enlistment office.
I will teach these British Schweinhuende.
But the men in their uniforms laugh.
We know you want to help, they say,
But come back in a few years when you're older.
Be a good German boy now.
We will teach them.

But I don't miss the terror in their eyes, and the creases in their brow.

I run down these streets again
The streets of a once- stunning city.
But now the only stunning thing about it is that it
Is no longer the wonder it once was.

Berlin.


Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde

Fiddling around with test tube memories
Mixing chemicals of brain and time
Chemistry, a sudden strong point
My lab coat a wild blur.
Frantically combining a toxic solution
Of memory and attention span.
A decade of thought, to think in a moment.
A slip of hand, and a crash of glass bottles.
Fumes become a projector screen for the past.
Breathing sensations in, suffocating time.
A monster arises- leather hands and cat-like eyes.
Avoidance is the only answer in response to monstrosity
No question in the motive of it's flailing claws.
“Away!” It cries, “Away from here!” The roar deafens.
Until painful decibels, a train rumbling into the station.
A station of horror, pain etched in posture and visage.
The only sense of control left is to stay indoors
Windows barred, to hide the secret of a past.
Test tubes litter the floor.


Dramaturgy

Jeffrey's eyes looked everywhere
At people's clothes, at people's hair
His voice erupted in a yell
"Why do you insist in hell?!
Are you real?
Can you feel?
That there's no point in catching up
To everyone who's matching up!"
But no one heard his desperate plea,
And that's what brought about the deed.

They found him lying on his bed.
The cry rang out, "Jeff Hunter's dead!"
Anxious fingers read his note,
The lyrics to the song he wrote.
"Why can't we see?"
"Oh, why did he?"
His shaky words cut through the page,
The ending to another day.
Tears were shed, and silent songs
Stayed there where Jeff's pen had hung.

"Everybody's selling something;
Everyone is buying.
I'm sick of all this dramaturgy.
'Spent my whole life crying.
'Cause you won't show me who you are.
Why won't you tell me who you are?"

They bring his coffin down the aisle.
The pain they feel is nothing mild.
The choir sings a solemn hymn,
The feelings low, the lighting dim.
His mother cried;
His best friend lied.
His father stood and spoke about
How masks we wear leave room for doubt.
He read Jeff's song in memory.
All eyes were wet with reverie.

"We strut around.
We're in a play.
'Know what to do.
'Know what to say.
Tell me who you are.
Won't you tell me who you are?

"The Jocks the Freaks,
The Science Geeks.
We're giving you all labels.
The Mollys, Peters,
Cheerleaders,
The Marthas and the Mabels.

"Everybody's selling something;
Everyone is buying.
I'm sick of all this dramaturgy.
'Spent my whole life crying.
'Cause you won't show me who you are.
Why won't you tell me who you are?"


After Ward Prayer

I step into my Ford Taurus
And I sob.
But there's no true reason to sob.
I pass my singles ward friends,
Smile like Jennifer Anisten,
Wave and wipe my eyes,
Beaming "There's nothing wrong with me!"
I turn the corner, but pull over to the curb.
Something's wrong.
And I catch a blink of the horror.
Suddenly, I'm caught between a sob and a scream.
"Don't touch me!" A voice shrieks in my mind.
A little girl sobs in time with me.
And as soon as it came, it stops
I'm surrounded by my own muffled grasp for air.
But that's all.
"What do I do?" I speak aloud.
I turn the car around and park in the lot.
Again.
After sitting numbly in the seat,
I open the door,
Slam the door,
And walk to the crowd.
Caitlin looks confused, tired, and maybe a little worried.
"You came back."
"Yep," I reply. I'll explain later.
Wei notices that I'm shaking.
"Oh, are you cold?" Cameron hands me a jacket.
Minutes later, Wei takes my hand.
"You're warm, but you're still shaking."
I won't tell him why I'm shaking.
When I leave soon after,
I drive around some more
And get home after 10
To crash in my bed
And sleep.



Nocturnal Child

As bedtime nears, she awakens.
I feel her yawn and stretch inside me.
A child is here.
She blinks the sleep out of her eyes,
As I blink mine in a fitful lethargy.
Do you see her?
She is silent as she climbs out of bed,
Pausing to listen for a hidden commotion.
Frozen in fear.
I pace the room, not ready for sleep
And the nightmares that arise in the midst.
She is the nightmare.
Trembling hands and clammy skin.
She awaits for him to come to her.
This is her welfare.
I feel her shaking, shaking my heart.
I grab my knee and rub
I try to calm her.
She mouths her question silently.
Her eyes reflecting the same question.
"What now?"
I stare blankly back at her,
My mind as blank as my eyes.
"...and how?"
Gray matter constricts, and
A growing hurricane erupts.
I have no answer for her.
How can I help her be calm,
When I am terrified?
Have I broken my vow?
I promised to protect her.
I promised she'd be safe.
But she and I are haunted.

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